


for the love (comes the burning young)

by cxyst



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Army, M/M, Vietnam War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-20
Updated: 2013-05-20
Packaged: 2017-12-12 11:25:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/811048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cxyst/pseuds/cxyst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was stiflingly hot and they were dirty, smelling like sweat and insect repellent and muggy ‘Nam air, and there was war raging just miles away, but they were safe in their little corner of the universe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	for the love (comes the burning young)

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Español available: [for the love (comes the burning young)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2278170) by [orphan_account](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account)



> so we had vietnam veterans at school the other day and this happened
> 
> just to give you an idea of how i feel about it, this was a google doc called 'whAT IS MY LIFE?????' for a solid two weeks
> 
> ✿title from towers by bon iver✿

Harry walks up the steps into the Vietnam room and his joints pop and creak beneath him. He’s used to the feeling now, the dull ache, the unsteadiness in his body and mind. It’s in the grey of his hair, thin waves instead of wild curls, now. It’s the ticking, the slow alarm of his thoughts, hesitant and lilting. It’s age. His memory hasn’t gone yet, though, so he still knows what it felt like to be young. To be pretty and quick and a dreamer. He can still miss what he used to be, and often he thinks that might be worse than losing touch with it all completely.

His high school tour group is already spilling out, wandering past exhibits and fingering artefacts, fogging up the glass as they read the stories of so many soldiers. Harry limps to the middle of the room and starts explaining to a boy in glasses how the hand grenade worked, and soon more of the kids are milling around, eyes wide. Harry tries not to think too hard about how easily the teenagers are engaged when he’s speaking of the destruction, the drama of his wars. They never go quiet like this when he talks about the long nights in the trenches – sleeping sitting up with rifles in their laps, gunfire in their heads – the tiny ration packets that were meant to sustain them for days, the shaky handwriting they scrawled onto stolen paper, forced promises to families back home that they were never sure they could keep. But that’s not their fault, Harry tells himself. They’re naïve, same as he was. These kids are fed propaganda, just like he was; only theirs comes in the form of explosive action movies, horror and threats on the seven o’clock news, instead of the pointing posters and peer pressure and false hope that made Harry believe that joining the Army was the only way to truly prove himself.  
He finishes his grenade talk and the kids scatter again. He ambles around them, pointing out facts here and there, telling stories, fulfilling his role as the old retired War Veteran who volunteers at the Museum to escape the dreams. He knows of others who came back from Vietnam and picked up drinking and drugs as easily as they dropped their guns, others who just gave up, quit their jobs and left their families and now stay at home collecting dust, fighting off the memories. This is his therapy, though. He tells these kids about his war, day after day, and it is reliving it every day, and it’s painful, but it means he is so emotionally worn by the end that the pain can’t follow him into sleep like it used to.

There are two girls poring over the black and white book of pictures and names in the middle of the room, ‘The 500 Soldiers Lost In Vietnam’. The girls are young and silly and bored, Harry knows, so he tries not to feel the disrespect like a knife to his ribs when he hears that they’re picking out the ‘cute’ ones.

“Ooh, look at this one, he’s alright!”

“Yeah! What’s his name?”

“Private Ronald Brooks, killed in action by a land mine, 1963. Nah, don’t like him anymore, ‘s got a grandpa name.”

Harry takes a deep breath and shuffles up to them, says, “Any questions on this one, girls?” as evenly as he can, just to get them to stop talking.

They ask him what a land mine is, so he explains – less the mechanics of it, and more the pure terror of tiptoeing through a mined area with enemy fire at his back, treading as lightly as he could and pressing his bayonet blade into the soggy ground in front of him, slow, praying, always praying, that this footfall wouldn’t be his last. These stories hurt to tell, more than any others. Harry tries not to think about why. The girls listen intently for five minutes, then as soon as he finishes they’re back to the list of pictures. They’re as respectful as they have to be, as they’ve been taught.

Harry thinks, vaguely, about all the different generations he’s seen, the various kinds of treatment he’s received. Before he went to war, being a soldier for your country was played up, coveted, the highest honour. If you didn’t sign up, you were a wimp, a sore excuse for a man. War was for the heroes, for the brave, and everyone wanted a piece of that.

When he got back it was different. This war had hit harder, bruised darker, than any before it. Technology was developing faster and faster, and as a result the world was getting smaller. Suddenly, television could bring the horror of Vietnam into everyone’s living rooms, and nations ached. Soldiers were just another reminder of that. Harry remembers not being allowed to join his local tennis club when he finally came home, just because people knew he’d been to Vietnam.

A few years after the war ended, it all came flooding back. In relief, came the pride and the honour and the admiration. It poured out of the country, like thick, too-sweet honey, into Harry’s (and all the other returned soldiers’) hands. There were parades and marches and names on plaques, and if you happened to have your medals in your pocket when you met someone nice at a bar, you were pretty well set.

Now, Harry thinks, it’s different again. The polite respect is there, obligatory, but the pure admiration for War Veterans is gone. Those of them who are left are old, beer-bellied and slow and creaky, like Harry. They’re not the heroes anymore, have been overtaken by special effects and stunt doubles and names in lights.

Harry is lost in his thoughts, staring at the crumpled corner of the book the girls are still flipping through, when he hears it. He blinks fast, and would probably have stumbled if he hadn’t already been leaning against the cabinet in front of him.

“…Louis Tomlinson, his name is.” The blonde girl has her finger on the faded black and white paper.

Harry can’t help it, swallowing hard, he leans over a bit to look at the picture beside her little pink nail. And it’s faded and old and blurry like photographs were in those days, but it’s him, unmistakeable. Harry imagines that he can almost see the blue of his eyes. Louis. It’s been a while since he’s seen this. He tries to forget that Lou is in here, but of course he is, has always been, will always be.

“Mate of mine, actually,” Harry nods at the page, hiding the lump in his throat with a cough. “Louis. We were in the same squadron.”

The girls look up and nod, waiting for him to continue. But what can Harry say? Where could he possibly start, when it comes to Louis? He’s still gone for him, he knows that much. Even at eighty, alone and grey, he loves him. It was always going to be like that, though. They should have known that from the start.

 

It was the medical, the first time they met. They were two in a line of many other hopeful young men, shivering in their daggy undergarments, being prodded and poked and eye tested and asked endless questions. Harry passed quickly – strong as he was from helping his mother with the heavy lifting out the back of the bakery, handsome and with honest eyes. He was only seventeen, but so tall and lanky that they only gave his fake ID the smallest of raised eyebrows before they let him be eighteen. Louis passed immediately after Harry, almost too short but otherwise ticking all the boxes to be a soldier, and they stood next to each other in the next room to get back into their clothes.

“You pass?” Louis’ voice had been bright, curious. His smile easy.

“Yeah,” Harry grinned back at him, swaying as he tried to wedge one of his freak-long legs into his pants. “You?”

“Yep. I just hope I can make it through basic training, because my uncle said it’s the bit where they drop the most guys. I really want to go to ’Nam. Like, I’ll miss my sisters and my Mum and all that, but it’s worth it to be a hero don’cha reckon?”

Harry’s eyes were wide, taking in this whirlwind of a boy, little and smirking, hair quiffed like Dean, eyes like oceans. “Yeah, I reckon,” he replied, voice cracking. He cleared his throat and smiled again. “I’m Harry. Harry Styles.”

He went to hold out his hand, but Louis was already picking up his gear, shoving into his shoes. “M’name’s Louis Tomlinson. Hope to see you in basic!” And there was a small edge to the smile he sent over his shoulder as he left, a lilt that Harry read as something more than just ‘nice to meet you’.

“See ya!” He called, but Louis was already gone. He was left standing in half his pants and a single sock – his stomach sticky and fluttery, cheeks pink – wondering what kind of strange joke fate was playing on him.

 

And it only got worse, really. At the end of the first day of basic training, Harry was standing in front of a drill sergeant with his ears ringing and Louis beside him. Being in the Army was a lot more real then; it was in the itchy, starched press of his uniform and the mud crusted into his boots, the sweat on his brow and the pounding of his heart. The sergeant was bellowing at them, but Harry had already tuned out. He’d learnt that if he just stood up straight, keeps his muscles tight and his eyes forward, he could get away with not listening. He concentrated instead on the feeling of Louis’ camouflage-clad arm pressed tight against his own. It was almost scarier than the sergeant, almost more paralysing than the excitement of preparing for war, the way that simple touch gave him shivers. The feeling had been following him all day – when he first spotted Louis (those fucking eyes and that hair and his sharp, clean-shaven jaw, oh god) in the crowd to collect uniforms, when he gave Louis his hand to help him over a taller obstacle in the training course, or when he caught his eye from down the line as he dropped to one knee in rifle drills. It was never much more than these small moments, but it was enough for Harry to know that he was already in way too deep.

It went quickly, the training, not just because it was a blur of mud and filth and muddled heads, but because Vietnam was getting worse. They needed more troops urgently, so Harry and his squadron were hurried through preparations. They were worked harder than most, always expected to be faster, stronger and smarter. And they had to become a team, perhaps more than anything, because that was what would be the most important thing once they touched down in the war zone. They had to work each other out, gauge personalities, see how each soldier would fit. Louis and Harry fit already.  
They had become close almost immediately. They intrigued each other; almost polar opposites, but somehow working. It went naturally. Harry tried not to think too much about fate.

 

Harry remembers saying goodbye to his mother. She had cried, of course – painful, silent sobs into his rough, uniformed shoulder – but Harry had been ready for that. He hadn’t prepared himself for the way it would feel to pull out of her embrace. It left a hollowness under his ribs, an empty kind of pounding where his heart should have been. He ignored it, swallowed hard, took off his cap and pushed a hand through his hair. He was a soldier now. He had to be strong.

He had crouched down in front of his little sister. Her lip was quivering. “Now, you listen to me, Gem.” His voice quavered, but he would not, would not cry. “You’re a soldier’s sister now. And that means you have to be brave.”

She nodded, eyebrows furrowed in determination. “I will. I’m brave. I am.”

Harry nodded too, thumbed a tear off her cheek. He looked between his two girls, his family, and stood up. “I’ll write,” he said. “As much as I can.” Then he turned and headed for the train station.

On the train to the airport he had sat next to Louis. They talked about their families, and they pretended they were more than scared little boys trying to prove themselves, trying to make their country proud. They pretended to be strong. Underneath the tangle of luggage and travel-food wrappers between them, they held hands tight.

Their first sight of Vietnam, on the 19th of May, 1968, was nothing like Harry expected. He told Louis so, after an hour of wandering around the main city, getting their bearings with the rest of the squadron.

“Should’ve expected that,” Louis grinned, through a mouthful of some street food he’d bought from a dark bare-footed child. “Nothing’s ever how it looks on the TV.”

And Harry had shrugged and agreed. Everything about this part of Vietnam was strange, surreal. All around the squad there were stalls and spice smells and open streets. Men in uniform spilled out of pubs, laughing, flirting with the locals. It didn’t feel like he’d landed in a country at war. It was unsettling, but it was also a relief. Harry let himself relax, looking around and exchanging smiles with Louis and thinking that maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.

 

They moved on a week later. They were driven out to a base in Dong Ha, and briefed on their jobs as artillery soldiers. Then, with two other squadrons, they trekked up into the hills. They still weren’t used to the hot, muggy air, and the packs were heavy. Despite all the training, their muscles burned. Louis had kept their spirits up, though, telling dumb stories from home and pretending to sing in Vietnamese. (He knew nothing of the language, which was the most entertaining part.) They reached their position two days later, then spent another two digging bunkers and setting up their own combat base. It was there, in the surprisingly quiet hills of South Vietnam, that Harry and Louis spent their first of many nights underground. They sat against dirt walls with their packs piled next to them, tearing into their tasteless ration packets and talking.

“We’re proper at war now, hey, Haz.”

“I know,” Harry spoke through a mouthful. “Doesn’t feel like it.”

“It’s not very dangerous, is it?” Louis said, wrinkling his nose. “Mostly just filthy and boring.”

Harry laughed. He leant his head back against the wall, watching Louis light a cigarette and balance it between his teeth. It was very pretty, the way it set Louis’ eyes aglow with embers. It seemed strange, to have so much warmth in something so dreamily ice-blue. But Louis was a lot like that too. Caring, protectiveness, easy love, hidden behind all the wit and blustering confidence. It was nice, how the water and fire in his personality all balanced out.

“’S fuckin’ hot,” Louis muttered, pulling his bare feet further away from their little portable stove. One of his legs hooked under Harry’s knee, and he smiled a little. “When can we turn that thing off? I swear we’re in like, the pits of hell or something.”

Harry laughed again, and it was easy to reach out his arm, beckon to Louis. “We need the light still. Here, just unbutton your shirt. Cools you down.”

Louis raised an eyebrow, but started tugging at the buttons anyway, eyeing up Harry’s own bare chest. “This some kind of seduction technique, Styles?”

“Definitely,” Harry nodded, smirking. “Complaints?”

Louis’ lips quirked up as he settled back down next to Harry and blew his smoke out slow. “None.”

Instead of lying down on his pack, Harry leant down and rested his head on Louis’ lap. After a second, Louis hand came up to wind in his curls, and Harry let out a small, happy noise into the fabric on his thigh when he felt fingernails drag across his scalp. The air was thick with heat and cigarette smoke, but Harry fell asleep breathing easy.

 

Two days later, their squadron had their first contact. They would be backing up another squadron that had been trying to take down an enemy base for a week now. There had been casualties, and resources were running out. It was their turn.

And war was exactly like the movies. They entered the fighting zone and dropped to the ground behind another squad, and gunfire shuddered the ground and their bodies, each shot like an individual blow to the inside of Harry’s skull. His body was all adrenaline; his every nerve ending buzzed. The sergeant shouted an order, and they snapped their guns up, opened fire at the exposed heads of the enemy soldiers on the other side of the clearing. Another call, and they dropped back down to reload, panting. When Harry looked at Louis, he saw his own stunned exhilaration reflected back. They stood back up, moved fifty metres forward and to the left, then dropped again, raised their rifles to fire at four enemy soldiers trying to cross the clearing. They went down, one by one, and Harry didn’t have time to think about what that meant before he was being ordered up again. Bullets zipped around their legs as they ran, kicking up dust. The sheer proximity of the danger shocked them all, and their formation broke. Sergeant bellowed at them over the deafening barrage of firepower, stay together boys, stay the fuck together, and when they finally stumbled into the cover of the trees, two of the squad had been shot.

They radioed for the helicopter and paramedics, and as soon as the injured were safe, they fought again. Harry couldn’t feel his arms and legs; his brain was numb. He fought. It was like that until dark, wild and fast and terrifying, utterly impossible to comprehend. The sergeant decided at nightfall that it would be better to go back to their combat base for the night, to regather before trying to fight again. The squad was silent on the trek, and Harry stared at the back of Louis’ boots the whole way, mind whited out, horror-blank.

They sat in their bunker for a long time without saying anything, and Louis’ gaze was steady, watchful. Without warning, a sob rang out, too loud in the silence. Harry covered his mouth, almost surprised at the way the pain had torn out of him. The tears came, quick and searing, and Harry felt like his chest was being ripped apart. Louis shoved their packs out of the way and scrambled over to him, pulled Harry’s arms away from where they were wound tight around his torso and put his own there instead. He held him together, let him cry.

“Did I kill someone?” Harry choked into his shoulder. “What if it was my- oh god, Louis, I shot people, I killed someone.”

“Shh,” Louis tried to soothe, but his voice was thick, cracking with his own unshed tears. “Y-you don’t know that, Haz, maybe- maybe your bullets didn’t hit anyone. They. They probably didn’t, okay?”

Harry pulled back out of his arms, wiping his face quickly on his rough uniform sleeve. The tears kept coming anyway. “Louis,” he said, and it was all he could say. There really was a war out there, and people were dying, they were dying, and maybe some because of Harry. He didn’t know how to handle something so mammoth, so momentous, so he didn’t. He let the horror in his brain be overridden by summer-blue eyes and sharp jawline and rough stubble and sunshine laughter. He leant forward, with helpless tears on his cheeks, and asked in a rush, “Lou, Louis, can I kiss you?”

Louis’ eyes widened slightly, and for a second Harry’s chest felt tight because shit, he’d wrecked it, and he needed Lou more than anything now, but then Louis nodded and breathed, “Yeah.” Suddenly he was so, so close.

Harry’s heart stuttered as he tilted his chin up and pressed their lips together, desperate and fumbling and quick. Louis pulled back only to smooth a hand over Harry’s wet cheek, the hinge of his jaw, whisper, “Shh,” before leaning in again. Something uncoiled inside him, and he just let Lou comfort him, lips slightly open and wet-pink.

It was stiflingly hot and they were dirty, smelling like sweat and insect repellent and muggy ‘Nam air, and there was war raging just miles away, but they were safe in their little corner of the universe. Here they could pretend they were still naïve. Everything outside was too fast, whirling, frightening. They were young and dumb and already a little in love, and there was a war going on, there were people dying, and neither of them knew quite what to do with it any of it. That was okay. They were okay.

“We’re okay,” Harry mumbled between their mouths, nudging his nose against Louis’.

“We’re okay,” Louis kissed him again. “We are, Harry.”

 

Harry remembers the day that ended it all. Their squadron had been split up, a smaller group heading out ahead of the rest to scout out the area so they could be more discreet when they made an attack. The sergeant picked Louis and the other smaller lads to go out first, because they were quieter, and Harry tried not to think about how much his chest ached watching Louis walk away without him. It was too fast, too soon, to feel like this; like he couldn’t breathe without him close. He pushed the feeling down, gave Louis a nod and a little encouraging smile when he glanced back over his shoulder.

“See you soon,” Louis mouthed, smiling too.

The rest of his squad hung around the clearing, double checking their ammunition and water supplies, distracting themselves. Harry leant against a tree and talked to another mate about the updates they’d received the previous night from Dong Ha, the information that they would be rotated in less than a week. They would be going home. The guy told Harry about his brother back home, how he’d been writing to him telling him that he’d learnt a new trick on his bike and couldn’t wait to show him. It made Harry smile, thinking of the letters he’d received from Gem and his Mum, promising home-cooked meals and kisses the second he walked through the door. Harry barely noticed the time going by as they stood waiting for the sergeant to radio back to them that it was time to move. They ended up getting a signal well before that.

The blast shook the ground and the trees around them, sent leaves spinning to the ground and dirt shifting and their hearts pounding hard and fast in their chests. They looked around wildly, some raising their weapons at the innocent trees, forever on edge, now. They met each other’s eyes too, all stunned, hating to think about what that sound could have meant. Someone called out, “Come on, quick!” and they all jumped into action, relieved to have an order to follow. They slipped seamlessly into formation and started sprinting in the direction of the sound.

There was smoke coming up from the trees ahead of them. Harry panted, each breath tearing up his throat, panicky and hot. He didn’t even think before he started yelling.

“Louis!” His voice was high pitched, cracking, but he pushed on. “Louis, Lou!”

The other boys joined in, shouting out other names. “Sergeant Cowell! Paul, George! Lads, are you alright?”

Then they burst into the clearing and stopped dead. The ground was blackened, still sparking and flaming in places. The four soldiers and the sergeant were spread across the ground, uniforms seared dark, barely moving. Harry spotted Louis immediately. He was curled into himself, gun tossed aside like a plastic toy. Harry started off running towards him, stupid and desperate. He ignored the calls from behind him, warning him to watch out, there could be more, for god sake, watch where you step Harry!

He jumped over the sergeant’s lifeless body and dropped to his knees next to Louis. His soft fringe was singed, and his eyes were barely open, flickering. There was blood on his hands where they were pressed tight to his stomach.

“Louis,” Harry grabbed him by the shoulders, squeezed tight. “Lou, can you hear me? Open your eyes.”

He groaned out a shaky, barely-there breath. “Don’ wanna.”

Harry closed his own eyes tight for a second. “Oh thank fucking god,” he gasped, bending over Louis and sliding his hand under his head, pulling his face tight to his neck. It almost hurt to release him so he could talk again. “Okay, Lou, just sit tight. I’m gonna get help, just hold on. Try and keep your eyes open for me, okay?”

Without waiting for an answer, Harry turned and scrambled through the dirt back to the sergeant. Another soldier, Josh, was already there, shaking him, turning him over. “Sarg? Sergeant Cowell, can you hear me?” His head lolled against the ground, and they both saw his empty eyes at the same time. Josh reeled back.

“Oh fuck, is he-”

Harry swallowed hard. “Yep. Yep. Yes, he is. Okay, okay, fuck. Where’s his radio?” Josh turned around and started heaving onto the dry grass behind him. Harry took one sharp breath in, then another, looking away and spotting the radio in the sergeant’s top breast pocket. “Okay,” he said, more to himself than to Josh, before he reached out, shakily, and tugged the radio off the uniform. There was blood on Cowell’s face. Harry avoided his eyes.

He crawled back over to Louis as quickly as he could, scraping his palms and dirtying the knees of his uniform, hair hanging sweaty over his eyes. “Still with me Lou?” He checked, breathless.

Louis choked in a breath, hands still tight over his stomach. “Harry?”

“Yeah, I’m here, Lou, I’m here.” He babbled, fiddling with the dial on the radio, holding it to his ear to listen for a signal. “Hold on, babe, I’m getting help. Keep your eyes open, keep talking to me.”

“Fuckin’ hurts,” Louis hissed through gritted teeth. “Oh fuck, it hurts.”

“I know, oh god-” Suddenly the crackling on the radio stopped. “Hello? This is squadron one, um, we’re about 200 metres west of Dong Ha combat base; we need the helicopter right now. There’s been a- a land mine explosion, we have at least one casualty, more injured.” The words came too fast, and panic rose in his throat like vomit.

The voice on the other end was faint, but there. “Copy that. Please repeat your location.”

“200 metres west of Dong Ha combat base, in a clearing, uh, it’s smoking, you’ll see it,” Harry gabbled. “Please hurry, oh god.”

It was twenty minutes before they heard the helicopter overhead. Harry spent the time with Louis curled against his chest, stroking his hair back from his sweating temples, mumbling nonsense to him to keep him awake.

“You’ll be okay, Lou, they’re coming for you, just hold on, just keep talking to me.”

“When has talking ever been a problem for me, Haz?” Louis choked out, eyes wet.

Harry shook his head, his own eyes filling with tears. “How can you still manage to be a complete fucker when you’re-”

He won’t say it, he won’t.

Louis met his gaze straight on. “I’m not dying, okay?” His voice was still strained, desperate. “You said yourself, I’ll be okay. It’s not even that-” he coughed thickly, “bad.”

“No, it’s not, you’re right, you’ll be fine,” he nodded. He tried not to look at the thick, sticky blood dripping over Louis’ fingers, soaking the shirt Harry had ripped off his own body and pressed into the wound.

When the paramedics finally arrived, Louis was the only one of the wounded who was still alive. He was loaded into the helicopter on a stretcher, and Harry was pushed back, told he couldn’t come, that they would send a car for the rest of the squadron later. He cried properly then, stomach twisted up tight and cheeks flushed red.

He leaned through the doors quickly, before they took off, stroked Louis’ hair back and told him in a rush, “You’ll be okay, Lou. Just hold on for me.”

Louis had nodded, and his voice was even fainter than before when he said, “I love you, Harry,

Harry felt a hand on his shoulder, a paramedic telling him they were ready to go, but he ignored it to lean down and kiss Louis quickly. “I love you too.”

Now, in the Vietnam room at an old museum, Harry holds back tears, coughs again to hide the catch in his voice. He looks down at the faded black and white picture of the love of his life, chest throbbing with all the memories. He thinks about a home, a new life away from fighting and pain, that free kind of love that they never got to experience. Everything Louis could have had, but never got the chance to. All the things they might have become, together.

Harry nods, pushes a wrinkled hand through his thin grey hair.

“Louis Tomlinson. Most incredible man I ever knew.”


End file.
